


darling, so it goes

by fireblazie



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3994702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross never could have prepared himself for Demelza.</p><p>(A modern day, coffee shop AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	darling, so it goes

_i._

 

 

“Ross, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Elizabeth says tearfully. “It was horrid of me. I know. _I know._ ”

Ross’ eyes flash, sparking with anger. “Yes. I did appreciate the voicemail Francis left. What did he say, again? ‘Ross, come home quickly, your father’s been in an accident. Oh, by the by, Elizabeth’s pregnant and I’m the father. Surprise!’”

Francis fidgets awkwardly with the scarf tied loosely around his neck. “I’m quite sure I didn’t use those words,” he mutters.

“Yes, and I’m quite sure she was still my girlfriend when you decided to _sleep with her_.”

Tense silence is the only response to that, and Ross pinches at the bridge of his nose. He’s never wanted a stiff drink so much.

“Ross,” Elizabeth says, and Ross dares to look at her. _You were born to be admired,_ he’d told her once, after the first time she’d stayed the night. His eyes land on the gentle curve of her belly, and he feels a pang. He’d thought, once—well. No more.

“You’re well within your rights to hate me,” she begins. “I can understand if you never want to speak to me again.”

He wishes he could actually hate her. He suspects he isn’t actually capable of it. “How far along are you?”

“Three months,” she admits. He shuts his eyes. Three months ago would have aligned with that hell of a fight they’d had over Skype. Stupid, really. He can’t even remember what the fight had been about.

He stands up, suddenly exhausted and needing to leave Francis’ flat. “I—I have to go.”

“Ross,” Francis says, and Ross bares his teeth at him in a poorly disguised grin. Francis flinches, undoubtedly remembering that every time they’d gotten into a scuffle in their childhood, Ross had always, solidly, won.

“Be—healthy,” Ross says, stiffly. “I do wish you that. But don’t ask me for anything more. Don’t even _dare_.” Francis and Elizabeth are silent as he moves towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to get completely and utterly wasted.”

 

*

 

And he does.

Oh, how he does.

The untimely death of his father had been bad enough. They’d never been particularly close, and he’d always treated Ross with a gruff sort of affection. But his father had never been unkind, the way he’d seen Uncle Charles treat Francis at times, and the knowledge that he’ll never be over for Christmas dinner again, that he’ll never hear his voice over the phone again, that he’ll never actually see him again—it all leaves a bitter, stinging pain in his chest.

And then Elizabeth, with _Francis_ , of all people—

The alcohol numbs everything for a while, and then he just keeps… drinking. It’s surprisingly easy, to reach for bottle after bottle after bottle; he forgets anything and everything, and things feel, for the briefest of moments, utterly blissful, and then… nothing.

The next time he wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed with a tube down his nose and an IV in his arm, Verity clutching his hand tightly, desperate and furious.

“If you _ever_ do that again, I swear I’ll murder you myself,” she sobs, and Ross manages a halfhearted smile for her sake.

“Sorry,” he sighs, and goes back to sleep.

 

*

 

Verity not so gently encourages him to find something with which to occupy his time, so he turns his attentions to his mother’s old café, Wheal Leisure. She’d taught history at the university, and had taken great pleasure in choosing the name herself, though it had initially been met with raised eyebrows and puzzled grimaces by the majority of their clientele. His father had managed it only halfheartedly after his mother had died, and while it had never been _the_ spot for uni students, it had survived nevertheless, drawing a small but devoted regular crowd each day.

Truth be told, he half-expects it to fail miserably, and plans on cutting his losses in the aftermath and moving somewhere, anywhere—France, perhaps, his French is passable—and be a million miles away when the baby is eventually born.

(Elizabeth had called him overdramatic, once. He’d kissed her until she’d forgotten what she’d even been saying.)

But it’s something to do, to stop from drinking himself stupid, so he slaps a sign in the window that proclaims that they’re hiring, and waits for some poor, desperate students to come in and ask for the job.

He is not prepared for Demelza.

(How could he have possibly prepared for Demelza?)

 

*

 

Wheal Leisure—an odd name, Demelza thinks—is dirty and dark, and looks more like a haunted house than a coffee shop for the uni students. A spider scuttles across the windows, weaving a terrifyingly large web. Demelza peers at the building, a little repulsed.

There’s a faded ‘CLOSED’ sign on the front door, next to a hastily taped sheet of notebook paper that has ‘NOW HIRING’ scrawled across it in black marker. It’s completely empty, of course, and she has half a mind to get out of there and catch the next bus home before it gets too dark, but then she hears the unmistakable sound of glass breaking, a shouted curse, and before she knows it she’s shoved the door open and found herself in the middle of the shop, blinking owlishly at a man who’s glaring bitterly at shards of broken glass on the floor.

“Who are you?” he asks curtly, without looking up.

“Demelza Carne,” she replies quickly, eyeing him apprehensively. “Um, I heard you were hiring.”

“Yes,” he says, tearing his eyes away from the mess and turning the full force of his gaze upon her. She tries not to flinch away, and mostly succeeds. “You want to—” He gestures sardonically at the space around them. “Work here?”

“Well, it’s not in the best condition,” she says, trying for diplomacy. “But, I mean, I’ve seen worse.”

At that, his gaze turns amused. “Have you really?”

“My room?” she ventures, and _aha,_ that gets an odd, choked little sound of laughter from his throat, almost like he hasn’t laughed in so long he’s forgotten how to do it. She smiles at him, tentatively.

“God only knows why you’d want to,” he begins, traces of a smile still lingering on his lips, “but if you truly do, and if you know how to make a decent cup of coffee or tea, or whatever the masses want—the job is yours.”

And Demelza knows there are things she ought to be asking—her wages, for one thing; her schedule, for another—but there’s a fragile sort of peace between the two of them at the moment, and she can’t find it in herself to break it.

“We’ll have to clean everything up first,” he warns. “It’ll be a lot of work before we even serve a paying customer. Are you still up for it?”

She tilts her chin up at him. “Yes,” she says.

 

*

 

Ross Poldark is moody man, Demelza decides as she’s scrubbing at some unidentifiable species of fungus in the kitchen tiles. He gets all—all _quiet_ , sometimes, staring off into space in the middle of doing repair work, a dark and contemplative look in his eyes. But then there are other times, when she says something, an offhanded comment, and it startles him into laughter—she knows, because afterwards, he’ll look at her like he’s never seen her before, as though he’s surprised at what she’s just drawn out from him.

She lives for those moments.

She pauses briefly in her work, stretching out the kinks in her neck and rolling her shoulders to alleviate the stiffness there. As she does so, she catches sight of something on the floor, sparkling in the light. She kneels down. It’s a ring.

It’s a pretty little thing, she thinks, holding it up to the light to see it better. It’s silver, tarnished in places, a small blue stone in the center. She slips it onto her ring finger, just before the knuckle, admiring it.

“ _Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing,_ ” she hums to herself, letting the ring dangle from a crooked finger. She stands up in search of Ross, finding him hammering away at the leg of a broken table. She clears her throat, offering him a smile in greeting. He arches an eyebrow at her, setting his hammer off to the side.

“Look what I found,” she says cheerfully, holding the ring up to the light. “D’you think a previous worker left it, or—”

Ross is directly in front of her in a flash, looming. His face is thunderous. “Give me that,” he hisses, and Demelza is too startled to do anything but hand over the ring shakily.

“Sorry,” she stammers. “I just—I found it—I—”

He lets out a sharp exhale, placing a hand on her elbow. Demelza watches the way his fingers curve around the joint, callouses rough against her skin.

“I should be the one apologizing,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I frightened you. It’s just that this is—it’s a source of a very painful memory for me, can you understand?”

She nods, watching the expressions flicker across his face.

“Do you—” she starts, hating herself for it. “Do you still love her?”

Ross, although he’s standing right in front of her, suddenly seems very, very far away. “Yes,” he says. “Against all better judgment, I do.”

 

*

 

And that, naturally, is how Demelza finds herself falling for her boss.

 _Fuck_ her life, she thinks miserably.

 

*

 

**Verity Poldark**

 

Ross! Where are you?  
_6:23 P.M._

 

Home. Bring brandy if you drop by  
_6:26 P.M._

 

I absolutely will not. But I do have curry  
from that takeaway place you like  
_6:28 P.M._

 

You are the only one I can truly call  
family  
_6:29 P.M._

 

And don’t you forget it  
_6:30 P.M._

 

*

 

“I know it was a shitty thing for them to do,” Verity says, “God, of course I do. But what’s done is done, and Father’s health is failing by the second, everybody is exceedingly awkward, all the time, and _Ross Poldark I am getting married in less than a year to a man my family detests do not abandon me now._ ”

Ross drapes an arm loosely over her shoulders. “Verity, I would never abandon you,” he soothes. “You’ve come this far with Andrew. Besides, this is hardly the 18th century anymore. What is Uncle Charles blabbering on about ‘unsuitable matches’ at any rate?”

“That’s what I said!” Verity exclaims, incensed. “And then Francis, that idiot, picked a fight with Andrew when he came across him the other day. Can you believe it, Ross? Even _I_ could take him in a fight. In fact, I _have_ , and I’ve thrashed him soundly. I didn’t feel a bit sorry when Andrew gave him that black eye. He’s such a—such a _prick_.”

“Hear, hear,” Ross mutters.

Verity sighs and leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ve been selfish. How have you been?”

“Well,” Ross begins, digging in his pockets and pulling out that godforsaken ring Demelza had found earlier in the day, “I found this today.”

Verity flinches at the sight of it. “Oh, Ross.”

“Yeah.” Ross shoves it back in his pocket. “Life is shit at the moment, I’d say.” He savagely shoves a spoonful of rice and curry into his mouth. Verity skims her toes over his plush carpet. In the quiet of the room he asks, hoarsely, “Is she happy?”

Verity pauses. “It’s not as simple as you might think,” she begins, slowly. “When you were away, they grew—closer. They’d always been friends, as you probably remember. We’d go out sometimes, the three of us. Catch a movie, grab a drink. That sort of thing. It was so strange, though. Somehow I started feeling almost like a third wheel.” She bites her lip. “If you were to ask me if I was surprised… I’d have to say no.”

Ross closes his eyes.

“I think they _could_ be happy—” Verity hesitates. “If you were to give them your blessing.”

Ross’ eyes snap open. “Verity, you have _got_ to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

Verity holds her hands up in a placating gesture. “Look. I’m not saying now. I’m not saying tomorrow. I’m not even saying next year, but—they’re having a baby, Ross. You and Elizabeth are over. This is happening.”

Ross sags into his couch cushions. He furrows his eyebrows in thought, and then lets out a loud groan. “If I think about it—If I think about it logically—” He rubs at his hands with his palms. “Then I suppose—yes. Eventually. Someday.”

Verity pats his knee. “There,” she says, reassuringly. “You never know, you might meet someone soon.”

A thought comes to him unbidden: tangled red curls, and slender, hardworking hands. The first person to make him laugh since he’d returned. He clears his throat. “Doubtful,” he scoffs.

 

*

 

“You,” she says, sternly, “are my one true love and I should never have forgotten it.”

Garrick barks obligingly from the other side of the cage. It’s frustrating to have to talk to him through bars, and not for the first time she wishes she could just break him free and adopt him, the uni pet policy be damned.

Demelza sags inelegantly against the wall, staring intently at the ceiling of the rescue centre. “It’s not so bad,” she tells Garrick, who lets out a soft whine. “I mean. He’s handsome as hell, you know. The sort of, like, broody type. Very Heathcliff.” She pauses. “I didn’t like him so much, when we read _Wuthering Heights_ in school. It was all too much— _drama._ ” She turns to face Garrick, petting him softly. “We don’t need drama in our lives, do we, Garrick?”

Garrick noses at her palm. She smiles at him. “But, I guess,” she says, quietly, “sometimes he smiles at me, and he’s been awfully kind, and I know all his moods by now, when to leave him to sulk, when he wants tea instead of coffee, and—” She sniffles. “Well. So what? _So what?_ I can _look_. S’no law against that.”

Garrick gives her the most judgmental look a dog can possibly give.

“Oh, shut up,” Demelza mumbles.

 

*

 

“We need bleach,” she announces apropos of nothing, stray curls escaping her hair tie and casting shadows over her eyes. Impatiently, she blows them away so she can better focus on Ross, who’s currently engrossed in painting the walls of the café a light blue. She admires the way the muscles of his back tense with his efforts. _God_. It’s suddenly, entirely too hot.

He turns to face her. “Bleach?”

“Have you seen the toilets?” she retorts, and he grimaces.

“Unfortunately, I have,” he says, and sets the paint roller down on the layers of newspaper he’d laid out on the floor.

And that’s how they wind up at Tesco, navigating the aisles with practiced ease. Demelza grabs a bottle of Domestos and ignores Ross’ attempts to carry it for her. In the end, Ross caves in with an exasperated sigh.

“Six brothers,” she remarks, “I learned early on to pull my own weight.”

He looks at her, surprised. “Six?”

“Mm,” she says noncommittally, swinging the bottle to and fro. “We did our best.”

Ross doesn’t say anything for a while, and Demelza takes the opportunity to duck down the candy aisle and take a Kinder Surprise from the shelf. She glances at him. “D’you want one?”

“No, thank you,” he says, and it’s then that she notices Ruth from her Intro to English Lit class peering at them curiously at the end of the aisle, pushing a shopping trolley slowly in front of her.

“Demelza!” she says with false cheer. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!”

 _Oh, good god,_ she thinks. Out loud, she says, “No, he’s—no. This is—Ross. He’s my boss. Ross the boss,” she echoes, and kind of wants to crawl into a hole and die. She swallows. “Ross, this is Ruth.”

Ross reaches out to shake Ruth’s hand. Ruth positively _simpers_. Demelza wants to gag.

“Ross _Poldark_ , is it?” Ruth is saying once Demelza has decided she’ll keep her lunch down (for now). “I hear you’re reopening Wheal Leisure.”

“You’ve heard correctly,” Ross says, politely. “It seems a shame to let it sit and rot, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” Ruth agrees eagerly, “I’ll be sure to tell all my friends once it opens. Starbucks won’t stand a chance.”

Ross laughs. “We’d be eternally grateful,” he says, inclining his head like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

Once Ruth takes her leave and Ross pays for their purchases, they begin to make the short walk back to Wheal Leisure. Demelza draws her elbow through the loops of the plastic bag containing the bleach, and starts to unwrap her chocolate irritatedly.

“So there’s no love lost between the two of you,” Ross says out of the blue, and Demelza rolls her eyes.

“Really? How could you tell?” She’s too annoyed to even enjoy her chocolate. She cracks open the plastic capsule to find a little red Angry Bird glaring at her. She glares back.

“She seemed—alright,” Ross ventures, watching her closely. “A decent human being, at any rate.”

“Well, she probably doesn’t murder small animals in her free time,” she mutters.

Ross fails to smother his laughter. “Demelza,” he says, and smiles at her when she looks up at him. “What’s she done to you, then? Out with it.”

“Been positively nasty, that’s what,” she says. She pops the last fragment of chocolate into her mouth, swallows, and lets out a loud, shoulder-heaving sigh. “Just ‘cos I’m here on scholarship doesn’t mean I’m _less_ than her! Stupid rich folk—” She breaks off abruptly. “Uh.”

“Go on,” he says, looking amused.

“No offense,” she hastily adds. He’s still looking at her like she’s the funniest thing in the world. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek, a habit from childhood.

“None taken,” Ross says, and sounds genuinely surprised. “Is that what I am to you? ‘Stupid rich folk’?”

Demelza opens her mouth, and then lets it fall shut. “Well, obviously you’re not stupid,” she starts, suddenly very interested in the ground beneath her feet. “I know your—your name has some—some _weight_ to it. And your uncle’s chancellor of the university, and—and they say you’re part royal.”

“No royal blood that I know of,” he says thoughtfully, “though, yes, my uncle is chancellor. And we do live comfortably.”

“Must be nice,” Demelza says, absentmindedly switching the plastic bag from one hand to the other. At least, she attempts to do so, but Ross intercepts and seizes the bag from her.

“You already paid for it, I might as well carry it,” she protests, and is skillfully ignored.

“I want to carry it,” he counters, and then smirks at her. “I am, after all, Ross the boss.”

Demelza buries her face in her hands, horrified. “Ohmygodshut _up_.”

Ross knocks his shoulder into hers gently, laughing openly. After a while, Demelza succumbs and allows herself to giggle with him

 

*

 

Demelza stares at her laptop until she goes cross-eyed, tiny words on the screen blurring in front of her. She blinks rapidly, trying to get the words to clear. At length, she gives up, and lets her head thud against the library table.

“Why is school so hard?” she mumbles to the wood.

“That’s hardly hygienic,” an entirely too familiar drawls, “you’ve no idea the sorts of things people do on library tables.”

Demelza springs up, looking disgusted. “That’s _sordid_ ,” she spits out, wiping at her face before she realizes who’s sitting in front of her. “Oh! What are you doing here?”

Ross snorts at her. “I do go to school here, you know.”

“You do _not_ ,” she argues. “Haven’t you—I dunno, graduated?”

“I’m getting my MBA, for your information,” he says.

“Well, how am I supposed to know that?” she huffs. “You’re not very open about yourself.”

Ross watches her, in that way he does when she does something he doesn’t quite understand. “Fair enough,” he concedes. “What do you want to know?”

She thinks about the ring she found in the kitchen those weeks ago, but squashes down the thought promptly. It’s not her place—would never be her place, she tells herself determinedly. “I heard you were abroad?”

“Exchange program,” he says. “To New York.”

She lights up. “New York?” she repeats, scooting her chair closer, ignoring the squeaks against the floor. “Oh, I’ve never been. Is it beautiful? Like in the movies?”

“I suppose,” Ross says. “It’s not so different from London—the pace of the city and of the people. More skyscrapers, though. I wouldn’t call it as romantic as the movies.”

“I’d like to go someday,” Demelza says wistfully.

Ross drums his fingers on the table. “Surely you could find an exchange program of some sort,” he suggests. “Or possibly go on holiday with your six brothers and your parents.”

Demelza stiffens. “Maybe,” she says.

Ross pauses. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she says, abruptly. “I’m not on good terms with my family, is all. And you? I haven’t seen any—any siblings, or—”

“No,” Ross says. He gives her a half-smile. It’s a sight she’s growing used to, these days, though it never fails to give her the butterflies. God, but she’s pathetic. “Only one cousin that can stand me, most days. Looks like we’ve both driven away our own flesh and blood.”

“Birds of a feather,” she agrees, and curses at the butterflies in her stomach when his smile grows just a bit wider.

 

*

 

Wheal Leisure opens a month and a half later, with the addition of a few employees to their staff. There is modest success, owing primarily to their location near the library and the power of word-of-mouth. Demelza doesn’t really have a head for business, but Ross says they’re just about out of the red, so she counts that as a small victory.

After an exam that she thinks went decently well, she ducks into the shop, offering polite nods to the three students who’ve claimed the table by the window. Jinny stands when she sees her.

“You’re early,” she says, taking off her apron and gathering her things. Demelza takes the apron from her and slips it on, tying a neat knot at the small of her back.

“Just an exam today, no lecture,” she explains, and Jinny nods in understanding. “And I know you’ve got one too, so—”

Jinny shoots her a grateful smile. “I do, yeah, and I’m not at all prepared for it.” She shakes her head. “Thanks, though. And—” She lowers her voice, eyes flickering towards the storeroom. “He’s been in a terrible mood today. I’d just stay out of his way if I were you.”

Demelza worries her bottom lip. “Yeah. Thanks, Jinny.”

After Jinny leaves, she sags forward in her chair, resting her chin in her hands. The smell of coffee and bread permeates the space, and her stomach grumbles, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten since before noon.

It seems pretty quiet today, so she ducks into the kitchen and grabs a banana nut muffin, one of the less pretty ones, biting into it as she scrolls through Instagram on her phone. She keeps an ear out for Ross—not that he minds them being on their phone when it’s slow; he’s a fair boss, all in all—in case he needs something.

Two hours trickle by like this, with her duly preparing cup after cup of black coffee for students and professors alike. In the entire time, there’s no sign of Ross anywhere. When the clock finally strikes six and it’s been empty for a solid half-hour, she hops off her chair and tiptoes towards his office, a small room that’s only got room for a desk, a rickety old chair, and very little else.

She knocks.

“Come in,” he says, and she pushes the door open to see him staring blankly at his computer screen, looking utterly exhausted. When she steps inside, she sees a half-empty bottle of whiskey. She decides not to comment on it—it’s not her place, after all—but he catches the direction of her glance and lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

“Do you know want to know why I’m drinking?” he asks, and she’s reminded, yet again, of how little she knows about him. She wants to know more, but he doesn’t let her in. And it’s not her place, she repeats to herself, a little desperately, it’s—it’s not her place.

She shakes her head silently.

“Ah, but I’ll tell you anyway.” Ross stands up, a little wobbly on his feet, “About, oh, three months ago, I returned from New York. How time flies.” He laughs again, bitterly. “I came back because my father had died. I had quite the welcoming party when I returned. My uncle, my two cousins.” He pauses. “Elizabeth.”

There’s something in the way he says her name, like it's worth more than all the gold in the world. Demelza wishes he’d say her name like that.

“Well,” he says, “it’s not a very long story. She left me. The end. But you haven’t. You stumbled in here and found a broken man and decided to stay. For now, I suppose. Perhaps you’ll leave me in the end.”

“No,” she begins, haltingly. She takes a step towards him, even though she knows it’s stupid, _stupid_ , utterly fucking _stupid_ , and rests her hand against his. He blinks at it, and then at her. Assessing. Scrutinizing.

“Have you heard what they’ve been saying about us?” he wonders. They’re close enough that she can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the fraying threads on his button-down shirt.

She wishes she could lie. “A little,” she admits. It’s a small campus, and the story of a young uni student spending all of her free time in a decrepit little café with only another (single) man for company had not escaped the residents’ attention. Privately, she suspects Ruth Teague had had quite a bit to do with it.

“Do you want it to be true?” he breathes, and in response she leans up and kisses him, curls her fingers into his shirt, and inhales sharply as he pulls her closer, yanking the tie out of her hair and tangling his fingers in her tresses.

He pulls back first. She tries to follow him, but he holds her away. When he smiles at her, she beams back.

“Go home,” he says gently, and her heart drops. He leans in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you—when’s your next shift?”

“Sunday,” she replies, hoarsely. What had just happened? She wants—and doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I’ll see you on Sunday. Goodnight, Demelza.”

She furrows her brow. “G’night.”

When she finally boards her bus home, she settles into a seat at the back. She turns, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Her eyes are wide, and bright, hair unruly and wild. She’s lost her hair elastic, she realizes belatedly.

Even if it never amounts to anything, it will still be worth—everything, she decides. She presses a finger to her lips, and smiles.

 

*

 

Ross manages to send her away with every ounce of self-control he possesses, and lets his head fall with a sharp thud on to his desk. He can still feel her warmth against his, and he groans, abruptly sitting up.

She had just been so unexpected, he thinks, staring forlornly at the bottle of whiskey. He’d just wanted to wallow in self-pity for a month or a year, but she’d showed up with her smile and her hair and her endearing sense of humor and dragged him away from his misery. How _dare_ she, really.

And yet— _Elizabeth._

This is his one, fatal truth: he loves too hard and too deeply; and he forgets nothing. Elizabeth, for him, was supposed to be his one great, epic love. He hadn’t been lying to Verity when he’d said he could come to forgive her (and Francis) in time, but he isn’t sure he can ever stop loving her, either. He’s given away too much of himself to her. He isn’t sure he has anything left.

“Perhaps I should’ve stayed in New York,” he mutters, fiddling with something in his hands. He blinks at the sensation of it, and sits up in his chair, staring at his palm curiously.

It’s from Demelza’s hair, he realizes, and clenches it tightly in his fist. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, and then opens them again. He slides red band over his wrist.

“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders.

 

*

 

Demelza shows up for her shift on Sunday at nine, wearing one of her nicer shirts. She’d also put on a little lipstick that morning, because. Well. _Because_.

But the café is a little brighter, today, and as she steps inside she can even hear the rare sound of Ross’ laughter. Her smile widens, and she finds one occupied table, where Ross is speaking to a woman with perfectly curled brown hair, gazing at her as though she’s something infinitely precious. Well, then. She can’t look away. Ross takes one delicate hand in his and slides a ring onto her finger. She blinks, rapidly. It’s the ring she’d found on the floor all those weeks ago.

Ross looks up, smiles, and beckons her over. Numbly, her feet take her to the counter.

“Demelza, this is Elizabeth,” he says, and Demelza thinks, _oh, so all those stupid love songs weren’t lying about this after all_ ,and, who was she kidding? It was never her place. It was never supposed to be her place. It never would be.

 

 

_ii._

 

 

Ross opens the café on Sunday at half-past eight, not really expecting much of a crowd this early. He certainly remembers how most students spend their Saturday nights. If he’s honest with himself, he’s still just a little bit hung over.

So it’s a bit of a shock when the door opens not even five minutes after he’d flipped the ‘CLOSED’ sign to ‘OPEN’.

It’s a bigger shock when he sees who exactly is walking in the door.

“I can leave,” Elizabeth says instantly, freezing at the entrance. “Just say the word.”

He’s heard people say that pregnant women glow, but he’s never actually believed it until now. Seeing her hurts, but not as much as he’d expected. He smiles at her, and it’s genuine. “No,” he says. “Please. Stay.”

Only Elizabeth could make waddling with her pregnant belly look so graceful, he thinks, as she makes her way over to the counter. “What can I get you?” he asks. “I—don’t suppose you can have coffee.”

“I’m cutting back,” she agrees, and Ross lets out a laugh.

“Must be torturous for you,” he says, remembering her caffeine dependence and how she’d stumble around in the mornings until he set a steaming hot mug in front of her.

“It really is,” she sighs, but places a hand over the swell of her stomach. “I wouldn’t mind a scone, though.”

Ross inclines his head in agreement, selecting a cranberry and orange scone for her, waving away the cash she tries to hand him. “Shall we sit?” he asks, gesturing to a table.

Elizabeth follows him and sits down silently. “Ross,” she finally says, wringing her hands anxiously. “I’m here because—” She breaks off, frowning. “This sounded a lot better in front of my bathroom mirror.”

“You sound great,” Ross says quietly, drinking in her face and her voice, the way her fingers play with the buckle on her bag. God, he’s missed her. “What is it? Why have you come here?”

“The last time… things didn’t go too well,” she begins, glancing up at him hesitatingly, “I suppose I just want to—tie up all our loose ends. Close all of our open doors. Without Francis here.”

“I understand,” Ross admits. “And I agree. What do you need?”

“To talk.” Elizabeth takes a deep, bracing breath. “Ross, you have to know. It wasn’t—it wasn’t intentional. And I don’t have any excuses. And you have every right to hate me. Truth be told, I thought you’d throw me out of the café. Or throw my things out.” She looks at him then. “Thank you, by the way, for delivering my things.”

“Well, Verity said that it would be extremely childish of me to do otherwise, though the thought did occur.” Ross pauses. “And then she threatened to knock my teeth out if I did.”

“Ah. I’ll have to thank Verity, then.” Elizabeth smiles briefly, and then sobers. “I just want—not now, maybe not for a long time—but somewhere down the road, I’d like for us to be friends. We were quite good at that.”

“We were,” Ross murmurs. He heaves a sigh. “Elizabeth, you deserve the truth.”

Elizabeth waits.

“When I heard the news, I was—I was furious. Frustrated. Betrayed.” Elizabeth’s face twists into guilt. “I wondered where it had gone wrong. Had I done something? Were there—were there signs, that things were going wrong?”

“No, “ Elizabeth immediately says, “we were—” she smiles, wistfully, “we were perfect.”

“I tried to hate you,” Ross says, looking away from her and focusing instead on the wooden grains of the table. “But I couldn’t.” He pauses, thinking. “I have something for you. Hold on.”

He goes into his office and opens his desk drawer. Elizabeth’s ring sits in the far right corner, tucked away from papers and pens and staplers. He takes it and returns to her.

“Here,” he says, showing her his palm. Too many expressions cross her face for him to be able to fully decipher her emotions. “I did promise I’d give it back when I returned.”

(What he doesn’t say is that he’d planned on proposing with that ring as well.)

Elizabeth’s face crumples. “You don’t—you don’t have to, honestly—”

“You said you needed to talk,” Ross says gently, “and I need to do this. I gave you back every thing you left at my flat. This is the last of it. Tying loose ends and closing open doors, as you said.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “You can burn this, if you’d like.”

Elizabeth gives him a watery smile. She holds out her hand for the ring, but Ross—in a fit of nostalgia, or romance, or something, turns her hand over and slides it onto her finger. Her eyes widen at the action, and he shrugs one shoulder.

“I had to do it at least once,” he says, with false nonchalance. His heart drums rapidly in his chest. “Just as I have to ask you this—do you love him, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth bites her lip. “I think I can let myself, now,” she says, and Ross swallows away his pain. “And—you? You were always rather popular.”

The door opens then, and Demelza enters the shop, immediately noticing the two of them and looking rather stunned. “I think I may have met someone,” he murmurs to Elizabeth, and then smiles widely and calls her over.

“Demelza, this is Elizabeth.”

He watches as Demelza’s eyes fleetingly land on Elizabeth’s belly, and bites back a chuckle as she puts two and two together. He half shrugs when she widens her eyes at him. “Nice to meet you,” Demelza manages.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Elizabeth says, warmly.

 

*

 

“So,” Demelza says, once Elizabeth has left and she’s served a group of five students hot mugs of coffee and tea. “That was the infamous Elizabeth.”

“Yes,” Ross agrees, following her into the kitchen. “What did you think?”

Demelza shrugs. “What’s it matter what I think?”

Ross frowns at her. “Of course it matters. You are a—friend.”

Demelza glances at him, expression indecipherable. “Well. I can see why you’re so hung up on her, I guess. She’s beautiful. Warm. Kind-hearted.” She pauses. “I, uh, I take it you’re not the father.”

Ross snorts, leaning against the wall and watching her mix up flour, eggs, and butter in a large mixing bowl. “No, that honor belongs to my cousin.”

“Ooh.” Demelza pulls a face. “That’s—rough. Sorry.”

Ross watches her start to knead the dough with strong, steady hands. “I thought I would never be able to forgive her,” he says, distantly. “That I would never be able to hold a conversation with her. That the—the anger, and the betrayal, that it would consume me.”

Demelza doesn’t look up from her work. “Well, you two looked like you were getting along just fine to me.”

“It’s—complicated,” he says, evasively, and she snorts in reply. He can’t really blame her; he knows how ridiculous it sounds.

“Isn’t it always?” she mutters.

“Demelza,” he says, as she violently dumps the dough into a bowl and sets it aside to let it rise. She turns her back to him and starts to wash her hands in the sink. He steps closer. “Demelza, about the other night—”

“I’m not asking for anything,” she says tonelessly, cleaning beneath her nails with soap. “I’m not stupid. I know I can’t compete. Anyway, you were drunk, so if anything I took advantage. Sorry.”

The water is so hot Ross can actually see steam evaporating from the tap. Demelza’s hands are turning red. Irritated, he reaches over and turns off the water, roughly drying her hands with a rag.

“You deserve honesty,” he says softly, ministrations turning gentle. He tosses the rag away, and holds both of her hands in his. Demelza’s hands are full of callouses from her hard work. Different from Elizabeth’s. “There is, more than likely, a part of me that will always be a little bit in love with Elizabeth.” Demelza’s eyes flutter shut, and she looks pained. Ross steels himself. “But if you’ll have me, I can offer you what’s left.”

Demelza abruptly raises her head to look at him. Her eyes roam his face. He wonders what she’s looking for, and if she finds it. He wonders if she knows that he doesn’t have much left to give.

“I’m not greedy,” she says, quietly. “I’ll have whatever you can give.”

She deserves so much more, he thinks, taking in the tentative happiness that’s settled on her face. But he’s always been a selfish bastard. He gathers her to him. She smells of bread and coffee. “Thank you,” he murmurs into her hair.

 

*

 

“Coffee, black,” Demelza says, placing a mug directly in front of him. Ross blinks at it, eyes trying to adjust after staring at a computer screen for the past three hours.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking a sip. He makes an appreciative noise, and offers her a small but genuine smile. “I needed that.”

Demelza takes a seat across from him. “You know it’s past ten o’clock, right?”

Ross swears. “What are you still doing here? Clock out and go home.”

Demelza shrugs. “Nothin’ else to do.”

Ross grimaces. “Still, it’s late. Hold on a sec—I’ll walk you out.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Demelza protests. When Ross ignores her, she leans over the table and grabs his face in both of her hands. Ross tries to glare, and Demelza laughs. “At least finish your coffee, then,” she relents, letting go of him and sitting back down.

Ross saves his still woefully unfinished essay and closes his laptop with a sigh. Demelza raises her eyebrows at him.

“School,” he says crossly, and she makes a face.

“Tell me about it,” she groans. “D’you remember that Ruth Teague? We were randomly partnered up for a presentation on Dickens. I can’t do it, Ross. I think I’m going to have to fail the class.”

Ross takes another gulp of coffee. “She can’t be that bad.”

Demelza shoots him a disbelieving glare. “She’s horrid, and you know it! Picks on me for every single little thing. What’d she say to me earlier today—‘oh, Demelza, your penmanship is positively atrocious! How must poor Ross cope with you at the café?’” She scowls. “If she shows up here, I can’t be held responsible for what I do or say.”

Demelza, he finds, is absolutely endearing when she’s angry. He decides against telling her that, though. “It’s just one project,” he soothes. “Besides, you’ve nearly made it to the end of term.”

“Thank God for that,” she mutters under her breath. Ross hides a smile behind his mug as he finishes his coffee. Demelza stands up and takes the empty mug, bustling off to the kitchen to wash it off. Ross packs his things up quickly and heads towards the back, silently approaching Demelza from behind.

He waits until she’s set the mug back in the cabinets until he wraps an arm around her waist and presses a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck. She jumps, startled.

“ _Ross_ ,” she admonishes, turning around in his arms. He simply grins at her, and kisses her again. She responds easily, twining her arms around his neck and lifting up onto her tiptoes. By the time they pull apart, he’s out of breath and she’s flushed all over.

He wants, he wants—

“Come back to mine,” he breathes, and her eyes widen.

“You mean it?” He nods. A smile breaks out over her face. “Yes,” she says.

 

*

 

Waking up next to Demelza is a sight to behold—her tangled red curls are vibrant against the light pastels of his sheets, and her quiet breathing mingles with the sounds of the house. She’s splayed out across the entirety of the bed, her limbs tangled with his beneath the blanket. He can’t help but smile, even if he had woken up at three in the morning, shivering, to find that she’d stolen the blankets.

(Elizabeth, as she was in everything else, was a study in elegance and serenity; she used to wake up in the mornings with hair that curled perfectly around her face even after he’d had his hands in it all night long, beautiful in the morning light.)

It’s not—it’s not love, he thinks, resisting the urge to stroke the side of her face. No, it’s not quite what he felt for Elizabeth. But for now, it’s warm, and comfortable, and it’s enough.

 

*

 

Demelza has always been a light sleeper, and so she blinks groggily up at an unfamiliar ceiling when she feels the weight of someone next to her rock the bed. She lets her eyes flutter shut and lips curl up into a satisfied smile as she murmurs, “I hope you’re not watching me sleep like a creeper.”

“I would never,” Ross murmurs back, leaning in to kiss her neck.

Demelza laughs, and tilts her chin up to meet him as he presses his lips to hers. She strokes the curls on the back of his head, and sighs into his mouth and he rests his weight on hers enticingly.

“It’s my turn to open the café,” she breathes out, still trying to catch her breath.

“Let’s open late,” he suggests, mouth finding her neck again.

“We can’t— _Ross_ ,” she gasps out, and dredges up every last bit of willpower she has to push him away. “That’s irresponsible,” she chides, even as he looks at her with _those_ eyes, which is entirely unfair.

Ross studies her, and then moves off of her. She misses the weight of him on top of her, his warmth and solid presence. “You are a depressingly good influence,” he sighs, kissing her again.

“Someone’s gotta be, around here,” she retorts.

They get dressed and Ross gives her another breathtaking, lingering kiss at the door before she tears herself away so she can go home and change into a different set of clothes, because she’s not about to have _that_ conversation with Jim and Jinny. Ross, damn him, tries his hardest to change her mind.

“You’re playing dirty,” she accuses.

“Is it working?”

“More than I’d like to admit,” she replies, and dashes out the door. She hears Ross’ laughter behind her, and can’t stop smiling for the duration of her bus ride home.

 

*

 

Tuesday, mid-afternoon, and Jinny knocks on his door before poking her head in.

“There’s people here to see you,” she says. She hesitates. “Uh, they say they’re family?”

Ross furrows his brow. “Thank you, Jinny,” he says. “I’ll be out shortly.”

Verity, Francis, and Elizabeth are occupying a table by the window, he notes with consternation. Verity spots him first, and leaps up to meet him when he’s still a good distance away. “Be nice,” she mouths, as she wraps her arms around him in a hug.

“Always am,” he retorts with false innocence.

Francis stands and reaches out a hand; Ross briefly thinks about leaving him hanging but catches a glimpse of Elizabeth’s anxious face and Verity’s disapproving one. Holding back a sigh, he loosely clasps Francis’ hand in his.

“Hello, Francis,” he says, and Francis gives him a brief nod, still looking awkward. “Have you all ordered?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, smiling at him. “Jinny there recommended the blueberry muffins. She said they were in the middle of making a fresh batch.”

Now that she mentions it, Ross can smell the warm, homey scent in the air. “Demelza makes them herself,” he says, and Verity lights up.

“Oh, Ross, is she here? Can we meet her?”

“I don’t see why not,” Ross concedes, and goes to find her.

She’s pouring batter into a muffin pan, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. She glances at him and offers him a quick grin before returning to her work.

“My family’s here, and they want to meet you,” he announces, and she nearly drops the entire bowl of batter on the floor. She fumbles to adjust her grip, and he rushes over to help. She looks up at him, terrified.

“Oh, no—no, I can’t,” she stammers. “I mean, what will they think?”

Ross places the bowl down carefully and takes her hands in his. He frowns at her. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I, just, well—” Ross doesn’t think he’s ever looked her so flustered. As adorable as it is, it perplexes him. “Your family—they’re just really _rich_ , aren’t they?”

Ross stares. “And?”

“And— _Elizabeth_ ,” she bursts out. “They’ll—surely they’ll compare me to her the whole time, and—and I’m not _stupid_ , I know she was much better than I ever could be—”

“She absolutely was _not_ ,” Ross cuts her off, suddenly furious. “Demelza, where the _hell_ do you get off saying such nonsense? You’re wonderful, and you—you saved me.” He grows quiet as he realizes the truth of his words. She stares up at him, eyes wide. “You did,” he says, softly. “That’s what you did. Honestly.”

Demelza’s eyes rove over his face, searching for truth and reassurance. Ross isn’t exactly good at that, but for her, he tries. “Okay,” she murmurs. “I’ll go.”

He kisses her forehead. “Thank you.”

Demelza is visibly tense as Ross makes the introductions, but Elizabeth is a calm and familiar presence, and Verity is effusive in her welcome.

“It’s so good to meet you,” she says sincerely, and Ross is grateful to see Demelza’s shoulders relax.

“You, too,” she says quietly.

 

*

 

He goes out to dinner with Verity later that evening, and Verity keeps shooting him knowing smirks over her spaghetti carbonara. Ross pauses where he’s slicing into a slab of medium-rare steak and arches an eyebrow.

“May I help you?”

Verity actually giggles. Ross can’t help but laugh as well, and the two of them set their cutlery aside.

“No, it’s just…” Verity smiles at him, fondly. “It’s so good to see you happy again.”

Ross smiles, too. “I—yes. I am. I am happy. More than I thought I’d be.”

Verity starts twining strands of pasta around her fork. “And—Elizabeth?” she ventures.

Ross sighs. “I do miss her, at times,” he admits. “She and Demelza are so very different. Qualities that she has, Demelza lacks; and what Demelza has, she doesn’t. It’s odd.”

“You sound almost as though you’d like the both of them,” Verity observes, sagely.

“Sometimes, I think I would, sort of— _ouch, Verity, ouch_!” he hisses indignantly, rubbing at his shin.

“You deserved it,” Verity snaps, eyes flashing. “ _Christ_ , Ross, that’s—appalling.”

“You brought it up,” Ross says, sourly.

“She’s over the moon for you,” Verity says. Her mouth curls downwards, displeased. “I could see it. Anybody could see it. She doesn’t deserve only half of your heart.”

Ross suddenly isn’t very hungry anymore. “I do—I do care for her,” he says, subdued. “I just haven’t got an entire heart to give. I told her that, going in. I can’t love her.”

“What is it with men and their first loves?” Verity muses, returning to her meal. Ross does the same.

“I wish I knew,” he sighs.

 

*

 

Jim comes up with an idea for open mic nights on Thursdays, and Ross says yes mostly because he can’t find a reason to disagree. He texts Verity an invitation because he knows she’s always enjoyed that sort of thing, and she replies quickly with emoji after emoji.

“Is she coming?” Demelza wonders, peering over at his phone. She rests her chin on his shoulder.

“I assume the emoji mean yes,” Ross says dryly, and Demelza laughs delightedly.

“I’m glad,” she says, and Ross turns to look at her. Demelza straightens, still beaming. “I really liked Verity.”

“Well, she was my best friend first, so you can’t have her,” Ross says, and Demelza elbows him.

“I think I can convince her to go with me instead,” she challenges, and Ross can’t help but lean in and kiss her.

Thursday eventually dawns on them, and they spend the afternoon rearranging the tables and creating a makeshift stage for any singers or poetry readers. Ross had even remembered to get their old, rickety piano tuned earlier that week.

By the time six o’clock rolls around, Ross is surprised and gratified to note that the crowd is larger than their usual. He hops up to the front and clears his throat. The crowd falls quiet, waiting.

“Welcome to our first open mic,” he says with a polite smile, “I look forward to hearing your performances.” He gestures for Jim to come up. “Let’s start, shall we?"

Jim opens up with a heartfelt rendition of “Tiny Dancer”, and Jinny blushes to the roots of her hair. Ross is happy to see it; they’ve been hovering awkwardly around each other for weeks despite Demelza’s best attempts at matchmaking. Demelza smiles widely beside him, and Ross drapes an arm over her shoulders and presses a quick kiss to her forehead.

Ruth takes the stage next with a cover of “Love Me Like You Do” and Demelza shakes with suppressed laughter at Ross’ side, mouth pressed to his shoulder sleeve to hide her mirth.

“She’s making _sex eyes_ at you,” she giggles hysterically, and Verity on her other side is actually biting her mouth to keep quiet. Ross looks pained.

“She is _not_ ,” Ross hisses, and then accidentally makes eye contact with Ruth. He quickly looks away. Demelza widens her eyes at him and Ross glares up at the ceiling for lack of anything else to focus on.

“That was brilliant,” Demelza gasps out as Ruth exits the stage to smattering applause.

“You are terrible,” Ross mutters out the side of his mouth.

A couple of students read some of their original poetry, and Ross chances a look at Elizabeth, who’d studied English in school. She has a quiet smile on her lips, a hand resting on her belly. Francis’ hand rests on top of hers.

There’s a lull in performances and Demelza bustles around with Jinny and Jim, serving refreshments to their guests. Ross retrieves hot cocoa for his family.

“This has been quite entertaining,” Francis says genially, accepting a mug. “Thank you for inviting us.”

For the first time since everything had occurred, Ross looks at Francis and sees simply his cousin, not the bastard who’d stolen his girlfriend. Something eases in his chest. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says, and it’s sincere. “Elizabeth, you ought to take a turn at the piano.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Elizabeth says, looking apprehensively at the instrument. “I haven’t played in a while.”

“You should,” Francis encourages her. “You’re a wonderful pianist, darling.”

Ross waits for some kind of emotion to turn up at the sound of the endearment. There isn’t, much. “Two against one,” he says, gently, and Elizabeth laughs and slowly gets to her feet.

“Bullies, you Poldark men are,” she teases, and settles down at the piano. She plays an experimental scale. Ross is transported back to another time when she used to tinker away at the piano while he’d study for exams.

But this is a different time, now, and there is just a beat of nostalgia as she starts to play the second movement of Beethoven’s ‘Pathétique’, slow and sweet. Demelza returns to his side, leaning into him.

“She’s good,” she murmurs.

“She is,” he agrees.

Elizabeth returns to her seat, accepting the polite compliments they offer her. She takes a sip of her hot cocoa gratefully, though Ross is sure it’s lukewarm by now.

No one else takes the stage after her, and Ross assumes the performances have ended for the night. All in all, they weren’t too bad, he muses, and he thinks he’ll look forward to what the following week brings.

“What about you, Demelza?” Ruth approaches them and places a hand on Demelza’s arm. “You aren’t going to grace us with a performance?”

“I—no,” Demelza says, shaking her head rapidly, “I don’t—”

“Surely you can play _something,_ ” Ruth insists, and Demelza’s smile grows strained.

“Really, now, Ruth, I—”

“Sing,” Ross interrupts, and Demelza turns to him, alarmed. He smiles at her. “Demelza sings.”

“No, I don’t,” she immediately says.

“Oh, I’d love to hear you,” Verity says, kindly, and Demelza visibly wavers. Ross takes the opportunity to lead her to the stage. She clutches his wrist.

“What do I sing?” she hisses in an undertone.

Ross shrugs. “Sing a love song. People like that.”

She glowers at him before remembering where she’s at and reluctantly sits at the piano. He’s a little surprised at that. He hadn’t known she played.

He watches as she takes a deep, steadying breath, and begins to play.

“ _Wise men say only fools rush in…_ ” she begins, hesitatingly, “ _but I can’t help falling in love with you._ ”

The thing is, Ross hadn’t known what she’d sing or play. Demelza sings all the time, but always just simple things, little nursery rhymes as she kneads dough in the kitchen, or snatches of songs he’s heard on the radio as she prepares coffee and tea for their customers.

He isn’t prepared for this.

(He’s never prepared for Demelza.)

 _“So won’t you please just—”_ Her voice breaks, and he can’t look away, “ _—take my hand?”_ At some point she’s raised her head from the keys to shift her focus to him, and the rest of the world seems to fade away. In that moment, he is aware only of Demelza, singing and playing an old, barely restored piano, and it is the best and brightest thing he’s ever seen.

“ _Take my whole life, too.”_

Ross swallows, thickly.

 _“Because I can’t help_ _falling in love…”_ She smiles at him, a little sadly, “… _with you.”_

The audience is on their feet, he realizes distantly, and he can only give her a wondering, amazed grin as he claps his hands for her, too. Something—he doesn’t know what, precisely, but something seems to slide in place as she watches her bow awkwardly on stage. Somehow, without him noticing, she has become something incredibly and infinitely precious to him.

Verity scoffs from where she’s sitting next to him. “ ‘Can’t love her’ my arse,” she mutters, and Ross thinks, _oh, that’s what this is,_ and falls gracelessly into his seat, stunned.

 

 

_iii._

 

 

Demelza is not a coward. She’s not. She’s _not_. She’s lived a tough life, and she hasn’t gotten to where she is today without surviving her fair (more than fair, if truth be told) share of hardships.

But she’s literally (okay, no, not _literally_ , but still) just bared her heart out to a good chunk of her classmates, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s family, and oh god she is going to be sick.

She dashes off stage, not chancing a look at Ross, and flees to the toilets, locking herself in one of the stalls. She slams the lid down on the toilet and sinks down on it, burying her face in her hands.

“It’s fine,” she whispers to herself, “it’s fine, it’s fine, he probably didn’t notice anything. He isn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box, yeah? It’s fine. We’re fine.” She’s practically gasping for breath. _Shit_ , she thinks hysterically. She hasn’t had a panic attack in years. She clenches her eyes shut and desperately tries to regulate her breathing.

“Demelza?” Her eyes fly open. It’s Verity, knocking gently on the stall. “Demelza, let me in.”

Demelza fumbles for the lock and lets Verity in, who takes one look at her and instantly kneels down at her feet, clasping her hands gently but with enough pressure to reassure her of her solid presence.

“You’ll be okay,” Verity says, firmly. “It’ll pass. I promise it, Demelza. It’ll pass.”

Demelza can only nod.

It probably only lasts five minutes, but it feels much, much longer. Throughout it all, Verity chatters on about mundane things—how she’d burned her toast that morning for breakfast but hadn’t had time to do it over because her alarm hadn’t gone off; how one of her patients at the hospital had attempted to escape by claiming to be Winston Churchill.

“Did he look anything like him?” Demelza asks, near silent.

“You know, he did bear a striking resemblance,” Verity acknowledges, and Demelza cracks a smile.

“Thank you, Verity,” she murmurs, leaning into her briefly. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“Don’t be silly,” Verity reassures her, patting her on the knee. “Are you alright now?”

“I don’t really know,” Demelza admits, and exhales sharply. “Verity, tell me. How—how was I?”

“Oh, it was beautiful,” Verity enthuses, “heartfelt, and emotional, and incredibly real. Best performance of the night, by far.”

That’s what she’d been dreading. “When you say real,” Demelza starts, swallowing, “you mean—”

Verity peers at her closely. “That nobody could ever doubt the strength of your feelings,” she explains, slowly, and Demelza lets out a muffled sob.

“I’ve mucked it all up now,” she says, shakily, and Verity’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm.

“What are you saying? You _did_ mean it, didn’t you?”

“Mean it?” Demelza lets out a bitter laugh. “God, of course I did. Every word! But—“ She struggles for words. “He—no. He never could. He’s still half-in-love with Elizabeth. And I’m just the poor, miserable slob that fell for him when I shouldn’t have."

“Oh, Demelza.” Verity rubs her arms soothingly. “Ross cares for you a great deal. I know that. Believe me.”

“He cares for me,” Demelza agrees, nodding. “He does, I do believe that. And he’s been incredibly kind to me. But—it’s not love. He’s never once said that to me. And I don’t think he ever will.” She smiles at Verity, but it’s a sad, self-deprecating thing. “I’ll just have to be content with what he gives me.”

Verity clenches her jaw, and like this, Demelza can see a hint of the infamous Poldark temper in her. She waits for it, but Verity simply blows out an angry, frustrated breath of air. “When Ross returned and found out about Francis and Elizabeth,” she begins, slowly, “he was—in a very bad place.”

Demelza remembers. “I know.”

“No, it was worse. Far worse. He drank himself to _hell_. I’m listed as his first emergency contact, you know? I’ll never forget that phone call.” Verity’s eyes grow distant and Demelza squeezes her hand in reassurance. “It broke him, the news did. Elizabeth was everything to him.”

Demelza stares at her shoes. “I know,” she whispers.

“ _Was_ ,” Verity emphasizes, and forces Demelza to look at her. “No longer. Things change, my dear. Places change. Situations change. People move on.” Demelza bites her lip, but Verity settles her hands on her shoulders. “You were the first person to make him smile again.” Verity’s mouth settles into a grin of its own. “I never thought I’d see my cousin smile again.”

“He is rather overdramatic,” Demelza says wryly, and they share a laugh and a look of understanding.

“Are you ready to go back?” Verity stands and offers her a hand.

Demelza takes it and breathes in and out, slowly. “Yeah,” she says.

Out of the frying pan, and all that.

 

*

 

**Verity Poldark**

 

Sometimes I just want to wring your bloody neck  
_9:55 P.M._

 

?  
_10:02 P.M._

 

MEN  
_10:04 P.M._

 

Verity, seriously. What?  
_10:05 P.M._

 

You are on my list, Ross Poldark.  
_10:08 P.M._

 

Oh god not the list  
_10:10 P.M._

 

Verity, whatever I have done I am  
SORRY  
_10:12 P.M._

 

It’s not ME you should be apologizing to  
_10:14 P.M._

 

Then who?  
_10:15 P.M._

 

Verity?  
_10:22 P.M._

 

Oh for fuck’s sake  
_10:33 P.M._

 

 

*

 

Demelza escapes afterwards with a brief goodbye, and Ross is too swept up in sending his family off and locking up the premises to find her. At any rate, he’d been a little— _preoccupied_ with processing some of his thoughts.

He types out a quick text to Demelza, a simple _you sounded great up there tonight_ , but even that yields no response. He glares at the dim screen of his phone. No reply from Verity, no reply from Demelza. Does he drive all the women in his life away?

His flat is quiet and dark as he reclines in bed, staring blankly at the wall. He flinches when the screen of his phone suddenly lights up with a text.

 _Thanks_ , Demelza’s written to him, and his heart thuds against his ribcage to remember the sight of her on stage, red hair wild and curling, eyes fixed solely on his. When had she come to mean so much to him? He focuses intently on his phone before hitting the ‘dial’ button, pressing the phone against his ear.

It rings for far longer than it should, considering she’d just sent him a message only a few seconds before. By the time she picks up, he’s scowling.

“Hello?” her voice is small on the other end, and his irritation dissipates at the sound of it.

“Demelza, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says quickly, “but tonight went well, huh? I think I saw Jim and Jinny go out for dinner after, isn’t that great?”

“Fantastic,” he says dryly, “but what I meant to say was—”

“And Elizabeth was awfully good at the piano, wasn’t she?” Demelza keeps up a steady stream of chatter, much to Ross’ bemusement. He sits up in bed, cross-legged.

“She’s always been gifted at the piano,” Ross says truthfully, and Demelza falters.

“Yeah, I bet,” she murmurs, “but, uh, I really have to go, uh, I’ve got an exam in the morning and I haven’t studied for it, much, so, I’ll just talk to you later?”

“Well—” Ross begins, but the dial tone is the only sound that greets his ears. He slowly pulls the phone away and stares at it in disbelief.

“What in the hell?” he wonders, utterly bewildered.

 

*

 

The rational part of Demelza knows that there’s no way she can avoid Ross forever, but the stubborn part of her insists that she will try _damn hard_ to prolong the confrontation for as long as humanly possible.

So she tiptoes into the café that Saturday morning after and makes her way into the back kitchens after sharing a short greeting with Jim, who’s waiting on customers in the front. They’d quickly recognized that her talents in baking were too good to be wasted, and now she spends the majority of her shifts baking bread and pastries in the back. She doesn’t mind much; the kneading and measuring of ingredients is a soothing repetition after long days in class. It reminds her of lazy afternoons in the kitchen with her mum, when she was still alive.

She’s frowning at her mixing bowl when she hears heavy footsteps at the door. “Jim,” she calls, not looking up from where she’s measuring out flour, “d’you mind getting me some more flour from that cupboard there? This one’s just about gone.”

Jim doesn’t answer, but deposits the bag of flour just in the periphery of her vision. She glances up with a bright smile of gratitude and then blanches at the cross look on Ross’ face.

“Oh,” she says, weakly.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accuses, and Demelza returns to her work, cutting open the fresh bag of flour.

“Have not,” she retorts, though she can’t meet his eyes.

“How was your exam?”

“Exam?” she echoes blankly, before belatedly remembering her excuse. “Oh, it went—um, okay.”

“I’m sure it did,” Ross drawls sarcastically, and Demelza flinches. Ross sighs, and moves closer to her, stilling her hands. He tilts her chin up to look into her face. He looks puzzled and worried, but not angry. She wonders what he sees. She’s always been such an open book.

“What are you hiding from me?” he wonders, at the same that she blurts out, “I shouldn’t have sung that song.”

Silence.

“I see,” is all he says, and Demelza stares at the refrigerator behind his back.

“I think it was—too much,” she says. She’d never meant to expose so much of her heart to him, and it’d be stupid to do so when he could never give her the same.

“Too much,” he says, blankly.

She chances a glimpse at him. He looks—weary, and she can’t help but reach out to him, to touch a hand to his cheek. Belatedly, she realizes she still has flour on her fingers, and she draws back quickly. But he holds her in place, dark eyes searching.

At length, he shifts and presses a kiss to her palm. “I’ll see you later,” he mutters, and leaves her in the kitchen with only her half-made bread for company. She gazes at her hand. It tingles.

“I’m in way too deep,” she groans, miserably.

 

*

 

Uni lets out for the summer not long after that, and they never bring up the subject again. Ross catches himself frowning at her, sometimes. _Too much_ , she’d said, and the words taste bitter on his tongue when he says them to himself in his solitude.

So, he thinks, she doesn’t love him after all. The song had been—he grimaces— _too much_.

But what is he to do about it? So he stills his tongue—which is quite capable of, thank you very much, Verity—and remains content to be at her side, to drink in her smiles and laughter and warmth. It’s not as though he has a right to be mad or disappointed with her. After all, he’s the one who’d told her, at the very beginning, that he would always be half in love with Elizabeth.

Time is a funny thing. Elizabeth is still as beautiful and perfect as ever, but nowadays when he sees her, there is only the barest twinge of nostalgia and fleeting thoughts of _what-ifs_. Their paths no longer fall together, and Ross finds himself thinking about Demelza more than ever.

There are even more _what-ifs_ down that road.

And then Demelza rushes into his office, waving her phone frantically. “Elizabeth—” she gasps, and Ross stands up abruptly, “—she’s had her baby!”

Ross pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Why didn’t they call _me_ —” he asks, a little insulted, and Demelza rolls her eyes at him.

“Oh, come on!” she pulls at his arm and Ross tosses out halfhearted commands for Jim and Jinny to watch over the café as they climb into his car and make for the hospital.

It is a boy.

“Geoffrey Charles,” Francis says, beaming with pride. The name is a little pompous for Ross’ tastes, but the child is plump and healthy and well. Demelza hurries over to Elizabeth, who has the baby cradled in her arms.

“Oh, he’s beautiful,” she coos. “Could I—?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth says graciously, handing the child over. Ross watches Demelza handle the newborn with practiced ease, rocking him gently in her arms. After a while, Demelza wrinkles her nose

“I think Dad needs to learn how to change a nappy,” she teases, moving closer to where Ross and Francis are standing. Francis looks vaguely nauseated, and Demelza laughs at him.

“Come here,” she says good-naturedly, putting Geoffrey back into his crib. Ross ventures over to where Elizabeth is resting in bed, looking tired but content.

“Congratulations,” he says, and it’s sincere. Elizabeth smiles at him, soft.

“Thank you.”

“ _Augh—_ he’s _peeing_ on me!”

Demelza giggles, delighted. “Yes, that’s what babies _do_ , Francis, you’ll be getting pee and spit-up all over your finest clothes soon enough!”

Ross snorts, and Elizabeth covers her smile with a hand.

“Truly,” Ross says, quietly. “I’m happy for you. There was a time I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say such words to you, but I am.”

Elizabeth nods. “I’m happy for you, too.”

(“How are you so good at this, anyway?” Francis wonders.

“Six younger brothers,” Demelza says, dryly.)

“For me?” Ross furrows his brow.

(“Six?” Francis repeats, aghast.

“Oh, yeah,” Demelza says, looking gleeful at the expression of horror on Francis’ face, “so trust me when I say that it gets way, way worse than this.”)

Elizabeth inclines her head towards Demelza. “To be honest,” she starts, visibly hesitating, but then Ross motions for her to go on, “I thought at first she was merely—well. A rebound.”

Ross doesn’t lie. “At first, she was,” he admits.

“But not anymore,” Elizabeth prompts.

Ross turns to look at Demelza, who’s clutching her chest in laughter at the sight of Francis, covered in his son’s urine and fumbling to finish changing him. “No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

 

*

 

“Verity’s wedding is coming up,” Ross says casually, and Demelza flinches at the thought of it.

“Oh, do I have to go?” she pleads, even though she knows she sounds like a five-year-old trying to get out of going to school.

Ross turns to her, bemused. “Why wouldn’t you go? You and Verity are friends, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” Demelza starts wringing her hands. “But, this isn’t _just_ Verity, is it? If it were just, you know, you and me and her and Andrew, then, sure. But this will probably be a family thing, won’t it?”

“Your point is?” Ross says.

Demelza blows out a harsh breath. “The _point is_ ,” she says, heatedly, “is I don’t think I’m the kind of girl you bring to a fancy _Poldark wedding_.”

Ross, damn him, simply sits back and looks amused. “And what sort of girl should I bring to a _fancy Poldark wedding_?”

Demelza crosses her eyes at him. “A rich one!” she snaps. “With a—with a proper family background and actually has something decent to wear to these types of occasions!” She scowls. “Someone like Ruth Teague.”

Ross laughs, though not unkindly. Demelza feels tears of frustration building in the corners of her eyes. She swipes them away roughly, and Ross pulls her down to sit next to him on the bed. She spends half her nights here in his flat. She should probably be concerned about that.

“You’ll be fine,” he reassures her. “They love you. Even Francis, and he’s the hardest to win over.”

Demelza doesn’t look convinced.

Ross tugs at one of her curls gently. “Francis likes you more than Andrew. You’ve already got one up on the groom.”

Demelza rolls her eyes. “How reassuring.”

“Well, why don’t you let me meet your family?” Ross suggests reasonably, but Demelza goes deathly still and shakes her head abruptly.

“No, that’s not a good idea,” she says abruptly. “S’ fine, I’ll go to the party.” She forces some cheer into her voice, but even to her it sounds fake and hollow. “I don’t have anything to wear, though. I haven’t bought a new dress in ages…”

Ross frowns. “Tell me about your family,” he insists.

Demelza can’t look at him. “Mum’s gone, dad’s mostly followed after, six younger brothers,” she mumbles, and is suddenly assaulted by the memories of her father’s temper after he’d had too much to drink. She’d learned how to apply concealer effectively at a frighteningly young age.

“Demelza,” Ross says again, wrapping strong fingers around her wrist. It’s a gentle, loose hold; he’s held her this way before, usually to pull her in close for kisses. But it’s not good now; it has a completely different set of memories now, and her breathing quickens.

“Please let go,” she manages, and Ross must see something in her face because he drops her hand quickly.

“Did he—” he begins, nearly silent.

The loss of physical contact helps. She gathers her composure quickly. “He used to,” she says, willing herself to keep the tremors out of her voice. “He was just—in a bad way after Mum died. And I didn’t want him to go after the boys.” She smiles, wryly. “Probably didn’t help I’m the spittin’ image of my mum.” When she finally looks at him, his face is dark with rage.

“He doesn’t anymore,” she hastens to say, knowing his impulsiveness. She touches his cheek. “Really. Time and distance helps. And—I know he doesn’t hit the boys. He, uh. He found God, he said, afterwards. I was just… unlucky.”

He glances up and meets her eyes, and she’s taken aback by what she finds there. She can hardly breathe.

“See why I’m no good for you?” she jokes, though it falls flat. Ross doesn’t reply, but slowly reaches for her hand, never once breaking her gaze. He twines his fingers with hers, and the gesture is all Ross, untainted.

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, hoarsely, “you are far too good for me.”

When he says it like that, she can almost believe him.

 

*

 

Demelza eventually concedes and tells Ross she’ll introduce him to one member of her family.

“Almost-member, I guess,” she corrects herself, “but I’ll make it official one of these days, I swear it!”

Ross is bemused to find himself in front of an animal rescue centre, but Demelza tugs on his hand and shares familiar greetings with the woman at the front, dragging him towards the back.

“Garrick!” Demelza drops to her knees as the dog in question barks at her through the cage. She slips a few fingers in between the bars, and the dog licks at them obligingly. Ross observes them objectively. He’s never been the biggest dog person, but there’s no denying the relationship between the two of them.

“This is Ross,” Demelza is saying in a poor attempt at an undertone, “he’s kind of grumpy most days, but if you give him coffee he’ll perk up in no time!”

“You make me sound so predictable,” Ross says, kneeling down next to her. Garrick stares at him inquisitively.

“You said it, not me,” Demelza teases, and Ross can’t help but smile. Garrick barks at him, and Ross raises an eyebrow.

“When I get my own place, I’ll adopt him,” she declares, but then frowns as a thought occurs. “Though I know it’s hard to find one that takes pets, nowadays.”

“You just have to look in the right places,” Ross says lightly. Garrick barks at him again, and he chuckles, reaching for him.

“You like him,” Demelza sings.

“Do not,” Ross retorts. Garrick licks at his knuckles.

 

*

 

Verity’s wedding is beautiful.

(It helps that Elizabeth had had enough insight to assign Francis to baby duty for the duration of the ceremony, correctly assuming that the solid weight of his infant son on his lap would prevent him from doing anything too rash. If his face turns puce during the reciting of the vows, or if he mutters incoherent things into his child’s hair and Elizabeth’s warning grip on his hand is a little too tight—well. Things can be overlooked.)

They move from the church to the family estate for the reception and Demelza spends about thirty seconds surrounded by obscenely expensive house décor (filled with antiques that probably cost more than a year’s worth of rent, possibly two year’s worth) before making her excuses and darting out the back door.

“Breathe, love,” Ross murmurs, a hand solid at the small of her back. When she turns to face him, he looks helplessly amused.

“You didn’t tell me your house was this big,” she hisses, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. He grunts at the impact. She doesn’t feel sorry, at all.

“It’s not _my_ house,” he corrects her. “It’s my uncle’s. And one day it will be Francis’. I’m afraid, my dear, that you’ve attached yourself to the poor side of the family.”

Demelza cuts her eyes at him. “You’re hilarious.”

Ross lets out a laugh and presses his lips to her forehead. “I’ve told you multiple times. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Says _you_ ,” Demelza retorts, wringing her hands. “You grew up in all of this fanciness, polite manners and standing up when a woman enters and exits the room. You probably had ballroom lessons when you were a kid, didn’t you?” She freezes suddenly, clutching at his wrist. “Am I supposed to curtsy? _Ross._ I don’t know how to curtsy.”

“De _melza_ ,” Ross says, laughing, “you’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll be by your side the whole time.” He alters his grip on her hand so that their fingers are entangled. Demelza squeezes his hand, tight. The estate still seems impossibly large and intimidating.

“Ready?” Ross tilts his head towards the house. Demelza stares longingly at the expanse of land around them, at the perfectly landscaped gardens she’d escaped to for some much needed fresh air. She’s always preferred the outdoors.

“As I’ll ever be,” she mutters.

 

*

 

Demelza charms the entire guest list in a matter of minutes.

Ross remains at her side, as he’d promised, but apart from initiating the introductions to distant cousins and family friends, Demelza does all the work. He escapes quickly to the loo, and by the time he returns, finds her relaying an anecdote that drives even his hardened Uncle Charles to laughter.

She is, he thinks fondly, a breath of fresh air in this stuffy old house. He can see why Demelza had been intimidated—the house is imposing in its grandness, and many of the guests truly are extremely important figures in business and government. But her smiles are genuine even if dimmer than her usual, and she is trying, so very hard.

“I like her,” his old Aunt Agatha whispers, though it still carries far. Ross allows her to link her arm through his. “She’s got _spirit_. Not like the rest of these boring half-dead fools stumbling around here for a free dinner.”

Ross barely suppresses his laughter. “Aunt _Agatha_ ,” he rebukes, and she winks at him before venturing off to torment the Warleggans. Having never gotten along with that particular family, Ross is content to retreat into isolation with only his plate of food for company.

Francis finds him there, and plops down into the empty chair next to him. Geoffrey Charles stares curiously at him from his perch on his father’s lap. Ross offers the infant a small smile, touching his hand. His tiny fingers clench around Ross’ thumb.

“Enjoying yourself?” Ross asks the pair.

Francis pulls a face. “I’ve been avoiding Andrew, to be honest. Don’t think I could control myself otherwise, and Verity’d have my head if I ruined her engagement party.”

Ross snorts. “Why do you hate the man so much? He’s kind to Verity. I haven’t found him lacking in much.”

“He’s _kind_ enough, I suppose,” Francis spits out the word with no small amount of derision. Geoffrey Charles tilts his head back to send his father an inquisitive, wide-eyed stare. Francis lowers his tone. “He’s just awfully old. And poor. And a widower.”

Ross raises his eyebrows. “Your objections to him are hardly the worst faults one can find in a man. Besides, Demelza’s poor, and you like her.”

Francis looks sheepish. “I do, she’s a lovely girl. You’re very fortunate.”

“I am,” Ross admits, eyes trailing her as she speaks with Verity and Elizabeth.

“Do you ever think—” Francis cuts himself off, frowning at Geoffrey Charles’ head, even as he tightens his grip on his son. “About what would have happened if—” He stops again.

“You have to finish the question for me to answer it,” Ross points out.

Francis raises his eyes to him. “If Geoff hadn’t been born,” he clarifies.

Air leaves Ross’ lungs in a harsh exhale. His thumb is still in Geoffrey Charles’ tight grip. “To be honest, I can’t even imagine such a world,” he says.

Francis presses a gentle kiss to the top of his son’s head. “Neither can I.”

“It was still a—” Ross catches himself just in time, eyeing Geoffrey Charles warily, “—very horrible thing to do, don’t get me wrong,” and takes a bit of satisfaction in watching Francis flinch, “and I’d never been so—so utterly _furious_ and betrayed in my entire life.”

Francis mutters, “Sorry.”

“But nowadays, it’s just the barest twinge of irritation,” Ross says. “Not so different from what I normally feel when you walk into a room.”

“Thanks,” Francis says, oozing sarcasm. Then, more seriously: “You were never such a forgiving sort.”

“No,” Ross agrees. “But things change. There’s no point in holding onto darker things.”

They sit in comfortable quiet for a while, broken only by Geoffrey Charles’ baby coos. “You sure have gotten soft,” Francis says.

“I can still take you in a fight.” Ross arches an eyebrow and smirks. “Shall I demonstrate?”

Before Francis can answer, Geoffrey Charles dissolves into tears. Ross blanches.

Elizabeth and Demelza rush over, and Elizabeth takes the sobbing baby into her arms, shushing him. “What happened?”

“Ross threatened to maim me,” Francis says gleefully, and Ross throws him a dark look.

“Ross,” Demelza admonishes.

“I didn’t mean it,” Ross grumbles, and catches Francis’ eye.

“ _Soft_ ,” Francis mouths over Elizabeth’s head, and Ross resolutely ignores him.

 

*

 

“May I have this dance?”

Demelza glances up from her slice of wedding cake, startled. She bites her lip. “I don’t really know how.”

Ross tilts his head to the side to maintain eye contact as she tries to look away. “Hey. I’m hardly the best dancer here, either. Just follow my lead.”

“I don’t want to step on your feet.” She hesitates.

“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Ross holds out a hand and Demelza reluctantly takes it.

She manages to convince him to remain in a more secluded corner of the dance floor, wanting to avoid the spotlight at least for this first dance. Luckily, the next song that plays is a slow one, and they do little more than sway against each other.

“Is this what you learned in your dance lessons?” she mumbles, a little teasingly. “Swaying?”

“I was quite good at the Argentine tango, I’ll have you know,” he murmurs into her ear, and it’s enough for her to relax against him. He rubs soothing circles down her back. “Why have you been so tense? You’ve done wonderfully.”

“Have I really?” She shifts so she can gaze him directly in the eye. “I’ve told a couple of funny stories, s’all. Got a couple of pity laughs.”

“De _melza_ ,” Ross breathes into her hair. “I assure you, those were not pity laughs. They’ve all fallen under your spell.”

Demelza huffs. “Sure.”

Ross pauses. “Demelza, why do you think I brought you here?”

She furrows her brow. “I don’t—I don’t really know. I thought Verity probably asked you to.”

“She did,” Ross agrees. “But I could have said no. I could have gone alone. I could have brought someone else.”

His easy admission is a sharp pain in her chest, but she presses on. She always does. “Then why didn’t you?”

Ross doesn’t say anything, not for a while. He just sort of—studies her, dark eyes piercing, and it takes every ounce of strength in her not to look away.

“Because I wanted you there,” he says simply.

Demelza swallows. “But why?”

“Why?” Ross echoes, looking thoughtful in the dim light. “Why are we even together, Demelza?”

Oh, _god_ , she thinks. “I don’t. I don’t know.”

“We practically live together,” he says, “and we even shopped for _groceries_ the other day. We’ve become disgustingly domesticated.”

She says nothing. He’s still watching, waiting, so she mutters, “I know you still love Elizabeth, and—”

But he cuts her off. “When I first met you, I was angry. I was lonely. And you were here. You were, to put it bluntly, convenient. I thought, if nothing else, you would be a good distraction.”

Demelza closes her eyes. Is this what it feels like to have your heart broken? “I know,” she whispers.

“But I was wrong. As I usually am.” She opens her eyes suddenly as he cups her cheek in his palm. The gesture is painfully gentle. “You have become so much more to me than that.” For some reason, she can’t make eye contact, and can stare only at his necktie. It’s navy, not black, she realizes, and isn’t that the most fascinating thing in the world right now? “Demelza. Look at me. Please.”

She does.

“I once told you that I could only offer you what was left. What Elizabeth hadn’t taken with her.” She remembers. How could she forget? “The thing is, what I was too stupid to realize—is that she hadn’t taken anything with her after all. She’d given it all back.” He smiles at her, helplessly. “And if you want—I can give you everything, properly, this time around.”

Demelza lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You stupid man,” she murmurs, taking her hand in his and unable to stop touching him. “I’ve loved you since _ages_ ago. I was so embarrassed when I sang that song in front of everyone.”

He blinks at her, surprised. “I thought you said it was—oh.” He pauses, lost in thought. “Too much. As in—oh. I see.”

She looks at him inquisitively. He shakes his head. “It seems I was being oblivious again.”

“I guess I’ve gotta get used to that, hm?” she teases him gently, touching her lips to his for the briefest of kisses.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re quite stuck with me now,” he agrees, pulling her to him for a more thorough kiss.

 

*

 

**Demelza Carne**

 

When will you be home?  
_8:17 P.M._

 

Just got on the bus, why?  
_8:20 P.M._

 

You could just let me drive you  
_8:21 P.M._

 

We’ve been over this, I’ve taken the bus all  
my life  
_8:22 P.M._

 

I don’t plan on changing that now  
_8:23 P.M._

 

Well, hurry home  
_8:23 P.M._

 

Is that your way of saying you miss me?  
_8:25 P.M._

 

More like I think I’ve made a mistake  
and you need to come home now  
_8:28 P.M._

 

What did you do?  
_8:29 P.M._

 

Ross what DID YOU DO  
_8:33 P.M._

 

Come home and find out  
_8:34 P.M._

*

 

Demelza stares at him, stricken. “You got my dog for me.”

Ross clears his throat, uncomfortable. “I did.”

“But you said you hated dogs.”

“I hate a lot of things.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know _that._ ”

“You—are not one of them.”

It’s as though the sun breaks loose over Demelza’s face, and Ross is, not for the first time, startled by the intensity of her brightness. She’s still kneeling down beside the dog— _Garrick_ , he reminds himself, as he’ll no doubt be dealing with him for a very long time—but can’t stop smiling up at him. Against his wishes, Ross finds himself smiling back.

Then Demelza leaps at him and flings her arms around him, and it’s all he can do to brace his weight on his feet and tighten his hold on her so they don’t fall into a sprawling heap on the floor.

“Thankyouthankyou _thankyou_ ,” she breathes, gripping him fiercely. The smell of her shampoo tickles his nostrils. He tangles his fingers in her hair. How to tell her that he should be the one thanking her instead? She’d shown him that there was life after Elizabeth after all, and a frankly better one, at that.

“No,” he says, quietly. “Thank _you_.”

She pulls back to study him, a teasing glimmer in her eyes. “Ross Poldark? Thanking _me_? Are pigs flying outside? Is it snowing in hell? Will it—”

Ross cuts her off, effectively, with a kiss. Far too chaste for his liking, but Demelza pulls back quickly. “Not in front of Garrick,” she says primly, eyes dancing with mirth.

“I will send him back, I swear,” he mutters.

“No, you won’t,” says Demelza confidently.

Garrick actually gives him large, brown, pitiful puppy-dog eyes. Ross scowls, but it’s a half-hearted thing. “No, I won’t,” he sighs.

 

*

 

After Elizabeth, Ross stopped believing in happily-ever-afters.

But as the days go by and Demelza starts leaving more and more of her things behind in his flat, as he finds himself taking Garrick for walks when Demelza’s too tired and too busy to do so, as he catches himself humming some of Demelza’s songs under his breath and they trade little half-smiles across the now frequently crowded café—

It’s a damned close thing.

 

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it—little more than self-indulgent fluff after that emotional wreck of a finale. If you were looking for a deep and meaningful fic steeped in clever social commentary, this unfortunately is not it. But if you wanted the fluff, well. Hopefully this delivered.
> 
> Also as I am sure you noticed, the fic is not Britpicked, like, at all; it’s probably a terrible amalgamation of Britishisms I’ve picked up and the Americanisms I have grown up with. Sorry!
> 
> For anyone who is interested, I imagined Demelza singing [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sQeQC4hT10) particular version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Title of the fic is also taken from the same song.
> 
> Thank you for reading! & come say hi on [tumblr!](https://fireblazie.tumblr.com)


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